


and the category is.

by heartshapedcookie



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: M/M, pre-established meremy, the boys get drunk and watch jeopardy, this is straight up fluff no chaser, unapologetically cheesey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 07:06:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13406010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartshapedcookie/pseuds/heartshapedcookie
Summary: Michael and Jeremy plan the perfect round of Jeopardy over terrible beer and affectionate gestures.





	and the category is.

**Author's Note:**

> this was how we entertained ourselves when i was in high school.
> 
> @tinylittle-femalechrist on Tumblr

and the category is.

 

“I hate you, Rhonda Epstein.”

 

“What did Rhonda Epstein do to you?” Michael asked, returning from the kitchen with a plate of pizza rolls unfit for human consumption and two Giants novelty glasses filled with frothy, badly-poured beer. He handed the less foamy of the drinks to Jeremy, who accepted it without divorcing his gaze from the television screen. One of his legs was tucked beneath him, the other tented in front of him and serving as a base to prop his elbow against as he threaded his hand through his hectic curls. His expression was one of tipsy rage.

 

“She—Look at that! Look at that, Michael!” he exclaimed, gesturing to the screen and nearly spilling his drink on the carpet. “She’s category hopping! I hate her! Finish the category, Rhonda!”

 

“She’s looking for the Daily Double, that category-hopping bitch,” Michael said solemnly. Jeremy had little patience for contestants who didn’t finish the category that they had begun, especially contestants cut from the same cloth as Rhonda Epstein, the category-hopping bitch. Onscreen, Rhonda smiled toothily as she supplied yet another correct answer; Jeremy mumbled an obscenity into his glass.

 

“Michael, this is awful,” he said.

 

“What? The beer or Rhonda?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“My moms don’t have any taste, Jer, I can’t control what contraband alcohol I get to smuggle out of the garage,” Michael reminded him before taking a sip himself and going through the five stages of grief over the span of one, horrible second. “Hmm. This is awful.”

 

“I told you…” Jeremy tucked his other leg in, then dropped his head onto Michael’s shoulder with a sigh. The durable plastic of his hearing aid bit into his skin, a pinch he dismissed in favor of nuzzling his cheek against his boyfriend’s hoodie. He was relatively certain that his affinity for resting his head on the hoodie’s unwashed fabric had contributed heavily to his latest acne breakout, but he wasn’t going to rag Michael about upkeep when the cardigan on his own shoulders hadn’t seen soap in weeks. 

 

Michael dropped a kiss onto his boyfriend’s forehead. “Don’t fall asleep before Double Jeopardy. I’m getting good vibes for this one. I think this is our night, dude.”

 

“The night we finally get six good categories?” Jeremy asked hopefully.

 

“Six whole categories based on shit only we would know. Just think—obscure YouTube videos. A whole category devoted to rare Pokemon types.”

 

“‘Carly Rae Jepsen singles.’”

 

“‘Things to use instead of DS styluses.’”

 

“‘Name that Nat Geo documentary.’”

 

“‘The scary similarities between Jewish and Filipino relatives.’”

 

Jeremy snorted laughter into Michael’s shoulder. “The perfect game of Jeopardy. We’d make bank, dude.”

 

“Rhonda wouldn’t know what hit her. She can category hop all she wants, she’s not gonna catch us.”

 

“How much can you make off Jeopardy? A million?”

 

Michael choked on his beer, an experience that almost improved the flavor before the bubbles hit his nose and reminded him that he was basically drinking expired yeast. “Jeremy. No one’s making a million dollars off Jeopardy. You’re gonna have to lower your expectations, buddy.”

 

“Fifty thousand?”

 

“There you go. We’ll split it and pay first year tuition. I’ll be a big time YouTuber by then and take care of the rest.”

 

“Yeah, right,” Jeremy said, pushing away to shoot Michael an appraising look that was a little too pink-cheeked and unfocused to be terribly effective. “‘Hi, my name is Michael Mell and-and I’m gonna info dump about a cool thing I read online at, like, four am. Please subscribe.’”

 

“I don’t know, man, you usually seem pretty fascinated. I’ve got at least one subscriber already,” Michael added with a grin. Jeremy huffed, but didn’t disagree. “You should be happy, dude. I’m gonna take care of you for the rest of our lives with that sweet, sweet YouTube money.”

 

“My husband, the famous YouTuber,” Jeremy murmured. A gale of wheezy laughter escaped him and he fell back against Michael’s shoulder, clutching at his forearm. “My fucking… husband.” 

 

“You can have whatever job you want, Jer. I’ll pay the bills.”

 

“Can I be the new Jeopardy person after Alex dies?” 

 

“Of course,” Michael said, brushing Jeremy’s bangs out of his eyes. He then rubbed his thumb gently across his acne-dotted brown, a fond smile lifting the corners of his mouth. There was never a moment where he didn’t love Jeremy: his affection for the boy next to him was conditionless, impervious to erosion, unswerving. Knowing that the feeling was reciprocated—Jeremy reminded him in a thousand different ways, from listening enraptured to the aforementioned info dumps to the unshakable trust he had painstakingly rebuilt and reaffirmed through every gesture and word—made him glow. 

 

Jeremy suddenly sat up, eyes trained on the screen. “Come on, Alex… give us the good categories…”

 

“And the categories are—16th Century England—”

 

“No!”

 

“—Famous Bikers—”

 

“What?! No!”

 

“—Magic at the Movies—”

 

Jeremy paused. “Oh. That one sounds okay.”

 

“—Islands of the World—”

 

“NO!”

 

“—Renaissance Patrons—”

 

“Ugh, no!”

 

“—and finally, Nordic History.”

 

_ “Nooo,”  _ Jeremy moaned, going limp in defeat. “Michael, how are we gonna win with these?”

 

“Don’t worry, Jer,” Michael said, patting his boyfriend sympathetically. “I’m, like, ninety-percent sure I’ve watched something about all these things. You just worry about keeping Rhonda Epstein in line.”

 

“Rhonda Epstein, I hate you.”

 

As Rhonda geared up to make her first selection, Michael leaned down and kissed the side of Jeremy’s face; the brunet elicited a soft sound of surprise. “You’re such a dork.”

 

“You too,” Jeremy replied, propping himself up one elbow and pressing a kiss to Michael’s lips. He tasted like cheap beer and pepperoni-flavored filling, but his mouth felt like home. 

 

“Oh shit, Jer, she’s already category-hopping.”

  
He _was_ home.


End file.
